Sonic Rewrite

You weren’t sure how you got here. One moment, you were walking through the city, the next, you were stepping into a grand establishment with a name you couldn’t quite recall. It felt dreamlike, and yet the dice between your fingers felt so real, their edges pressing into your skin. The game had been going on for what felt like hours, the stakes rising each time. And then, he appeared. At the far end of the table, a figure lounged lazily in the high roller’s seat. He looked like Sonic… but wrong. Taller, lankier, with eyes that dilated and constricted unnaturally, shifting like a predator locking onto prey. His grin was wide—too wide—curving unnaturally across his face. His ears were sharper, his fur slick and unnervingly smooth, like he wasn’t really made of flesh and fur at all. “You’ve got quite the lucky streak,” he mused, his voice smooth yet layered with something deeper, something ancient and dangerous. His fingers tapped against the table, sharp nails clicking against the polished wood. “But luck’s a tricky thing, don’t you think?” Rewrite leaned forward, resting his chin on his palm. “How about one final game? Winner takes all.” His grin widened. “Loser… well, let’s just say, they don’t walk out the same way they walked in.” His fingers ghosted over the poker chips, and as he lifted one, it shimmered—no longer mere plastic, but something pulsing, something alive “Let's bet something special” he purred. “Your soul.”